Back To The Start
by clarembees
Summary: A high profile case takes U.S. Marshall Peyton Keller back to where her career started; Honolulu, Hawaii and to her ex-partner Chin-Ho Kelly. Chin-Ho/OC with some Steve/Kono going on in the background.
1. The Hardest Part

_Author's Note: Coldplay's "The Scientist" inspired me to write this Chin-Ho/OC piece that I've had bouncing around my head for awhile, but many more songs will be used throughout this fic. As far as spoilers go, no major ones for this season exist just like Chin-Ho's ex-girlfriend, now wife Malia Waincroft doesn't exist. _

_I couldn't find a specific date for when Chin left HPD so that's made up, if you know the correct date, I'll go back and change it._

_Just a little FYI, I modeled my OC after the actress Evangeline Lily who played the character Kate Austen on the hit ABC show Lost that ran from 2004-2010. _

_I have to thank my Bestie and personal cheerleader Ayshen who beta'd this fic for me and for just being amazing in general. Without her, this would not exist._

_And of course reviews are greatly appreciated, please and thank you!_

**Title: Back To The Start**

**Summary: A high profile case takes U.S. Marshall Peyton Keller back to where her career started; Honolulu, Hawaii and to her ex-partner Chin-Ho Kelly. Chin-Ho/OC with some Steve/Kono going on in the background.**

**Rating: T overall, but will venture to M territory. I will place notes the beginning of the specific chapters when that happens.**

**Prologue: The Hardest Part**

**September 2005**

_**(I could feel it go down**_

_**Bittersweet, I could taste in my mouth**_

_**Silver lining the cloud**_

_**Oh and I **_

_**Wish that I could work it out)**_

"_**The Hardest Part" - by Coldplay**_

Peyton hears the whispers cease the moment she steps into the bull pen at Honolulu PD. All the eyes in the room are suddenly on her, but she doesn't blink, she doesn't flinch, she just strides to her desk with her head held high and chin jutted out defiantly. It doesn't matter what any of _them_ think about her partner; she knows the truth.

Chin-Ho Kelly _isn't_ dirty and he didn't steal the 10 million dollars that's suddenly missing from the PD's asset forfeiture vault.

If _anything_, someone – and they could be in this room right now, she reminds herself, eyes darting in every direction – set him up to take the fall, and she'll be damned if she's going to stand by and let that happen.

Chin is the best man she's ever known, and the only one she's ever been able to trust. And that's saying something because she doesn't trust as easily as most people. No, she's been burned too many times to be so reckless with whom she puts her faith in.

But her partner; he's another story.

From the day she set foot on the flawless white sand of Honolulu – Hawaii's capital – after transferring from her hometown of San Francisco, he was there. His presence – calm and with a gentle gleam in his deep eyes – soothing the cracks inside of her that she thought would never heal. He's had her back from day one, no questions asked, and she returned the favor in kind, and she sure as hell wasn't abandoning him now; not when he needed her the most.

"Peyton." Her eyes can't help but flutter from hearing her name fall off his lips in that warm, low tone of his. It's like the crystalline waves from the Pacific are _physically_ washing over her skin.

Turning her head, she meets the familiar pools of his onyx eyes, her stomach tumbling like always and her heart racing _too fast_ because he's _just_ her partner, isn't he? A tiny voice – one she tries so hard to ignore on a daily basis – tells her he's more, he's always been more and will always be, but she stuffs it down because her fantasies aren't important right now.

His career, his livelihood, everything he's ever worked for and yeah, their partnership too (because she can't forget about that), is hanging in the balance, and _that's_ what's important. What's _not_ important is noticing how the grey henley he's wearing clings to the definition of his chest and arms. Yeah, that's _definitely _not important.

Cursing herself, she breathes in deeply and says, "Yeah?"

Jerking his head toward the bull pen's door, his voice is stiff, "Come on," just like his lithe but still strong frame, and her heart beings to pound violently in her chest, her mind whirling with the possibilities of just what he could say.

One of the thing's that's evident about Hawaii as soon as you approach the airport's landing strip, is that you're never far from the beach. Even the PD is close to the inviting, flawless white sand and crystalline waters of the Pacific. A fresh breeze blows by whipping the unruly strands of her thick chestnut hair that have escaped her ponytail and she's treated to the warm sounds of his heartily laughter as tiny tingles rush over her skin.

"You got a license for that hair, Partner?" He jokes, eyes twinkling like jewels.

Her anxiety lessens with his joke, her nerves calming, but she should know better. She knows not to let her guard down so easy, to not just dismiss her feelings, her instincts. Because when she turns to look into his eyes again, they're not twinkling; it's like a fog has settled over them, their color now dull instead of vibrant and they're haunted and distant.

"No." She practically spits out the word and she can feel her face contorting like she's swallowed something bitter.

"Peyton..." He starts, but she cuts him off, shaking her head sharply. "No." She repeats forcefully. "You can't resign."

"I don't have a choice." His voice is heavy, defeated and an ache starts developing in the pit of her stomach. "It's either resign or go through the rigors of an IA investigation, and I can't do that. You know those things don't just go away – even if you are proved innocent – they stick on you, like black spots on your permanent record from school."

The joke he makes is weak; just like his laughter, and the ache in the pit of her stomach is only growing, and so is the threat of tears spilling from her eyes. But instead of crying, she gets angry because how could he just _quit_ being her partner? How could he stand there and tell her, he can't go through the rigors of an IA investigation? What kind of bull shit is that? Doesn't he know she'll have his back through it all? That she doesn't give a damn about IA or the other detectives at HPD or the rumors or _anything_, but him?

"You know I don't care, right? You know that IA can ask me anything they damn well please, but in the end I'll have your back? You know that, don't you?" She hates the tremble she can hear in her voice, but despite the anger bubbling inside of her, there's also fear.

Fear that he is going to walk away, that they won't be partners anymore, that she'll never see him, smell him, hear him again, and it's gripping her so tight she feels like she can't breathe.

The strong firmness of his hand cups her cheek, and her heart is instantly lodged in her throat. Her vision is blurry behind tears she won't let fall. His body is close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from it, and all she wants to do is give into the shakiness of her legs and fall, but she doesn't.

Instead, she jerks away from him and when he tries to reach for her, she swats his hands away. She shakes her head when he takes a step toward her, holding out her hands like a buffer between them, silently telling him "don't come closer, stay where you are," but all she wants him to do is come closer and to not stay where he is. She needs him close because even though he's the one tearing her world apart, he's the only one who can put it back together.

This time she doesn't fight his hands, she lets their firmness mold to the curves of her hips and she lets him pull her against his body. She doubts anyone else in HPD would let their partner do this, but they've never been _just_ partners. There's always been something more; bubbling, simmering, lingering. His breath is warm and soft against her ear, her eyes fluttering and for a brief moment she lets herself think about how if they weren't partners anymore, they could do _this_ – stare at the ocean with his hands on her hips, her body pressed against his, his breath not warm and soft, but hot and heady as he whispers naughty things into her ear – but as badly as she wants _that_ (and oh, does she _want_ that), she'd give it all up to hear him call her, "Partner."

Because there's no one else she can trust to have her back. No one else who knows her as well, who trusts her as explicitly as he does, who sees through all her walls, who can talk her down from the ledge. No one but him.

"If I let the IA investigation run its course," He's standing in front of her now, eyes still haunted and distant, the ache in her stomach now a chasm that's only growing. "They'll question you about every case you've handled since you came to HPD and became my partner, and you don't deserve to go through that. Not when you had nothing to do with this. You're a great cop, and your standing shouldn't be compromised just cause you had the bad luck of getting partnered with me."

"I'm getting to the bottom of this." She says like she hadn't heard a word he said. "You may have given up on yourself, Chin, but I'm _never_ giving up on you. I don't care if I become the department pariah, I don't care if IA is all over my ass, you're _not_ going down for this. Do you hear me?" Her ocher eyes are narrowed and blazing with determination, a look that sends his blood singing with heat.

"Stand down." He orders, his own eyes narrowing. "This isn't your fight."

"This isn't your fight?" She repeats, tone rising in anger. "Of course this is _my_ fight! You're my partner! And whatever happens to you, happens to me! I've got your back just like you have mine, no matter what goes down, and no lame IA investigation is going to change that. I told you, I'm getting to the bottom of this, and when I do, you'll be kissing my feet and praising me like I'm the greatest thing to happen to law enforcement since the Miranda rights."

He shouldn't be thinking about how gorgeous she looks with the deep purples, reds, oranges and yellows of the Hawaiian sunset mingling behind her. He should be thinking he's one damn lucky son of a bitch to have a partner like her. But if he's honest and he prides himself on being an honest man, he would admit that from the moment she stepped off that plane three years ago, she was never _just_ his partner.

He holds her blazing ocher gaze, his stoic mask never slipping no matter how much he wants it to, and he cracks a weak smile saying, "You gotta let this go, Peyton."

He knows she'll argue, that she'll fight him tooth and nail (it's one of the things he likes about her as a partner and as a person), but he hopes, in vain, she'll listen to him. Because the only thing that's worse than losing his own badge would be if she lost hers too, and he can't let that happen. He won't let that happen.

"I'm not letting this go." Are the last words she says to him.

The next day, she's called in to talk to IA and tells them they can kiss her ass. Two days later, she puts in her two weeks notice; telling the Chief she's taking a position in the FBI's field office in Allentown, Pennsylvania that's an off-set of the US Marshall's service.


	2. The Sound of White

_Author's Note: Peyton's partner Cameron Grant is modeled after the actor Chris O'Donnell who currently stars as special agent G. Callen on the CBS drama NCIS: Los Angeles. Once again, thank you to my incredible beta and bestie, Ayshen for all your help with this fic._

**Chapter Two: The Sound Of White **

_**(My silence solidifies,**_

_**Until that hollow void erases you,**_

_**Erases you so I can't feel at all.**_

_**But if I never feel again, at least that nothingness**_

_**Will end the painful dream, of you and me**_

_**If things get real down here, promise to take me to**_

_**Before you went away, if only for a day.**_

_**If things get real down here, promise to take me back to**_

_**The tune we played before you went away)**_

_**- "The Sound Of White" - by Missy Higgins**_

Peyton couldn't breathe.

Her chest was painfully tight as she struggled to suck in air, the world blurry around her. Her eyes flew open, completely unseeing as her fist clenched at her blanket.

_Damn it._

Her eyes slammed closed as she forced herself to focus on _anything_ but the sheer panic surging through her blood and nerves. She chose her hand to focus on, reminding herself to unclench the fabric of her blanket from her own white-knuckled grip. Once she accomplished practically tearing the blanket from her grip, her shaky hand brushed damp waves of chestnut hair from her sweaty forehead.

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Remind yourself it's not real._

But it was too late; the nausea was already creeping up her throat. She was hyperventilating and with a whimper, she threw herself out of bed and stumbled toward her bathroom; just barely making it inside before her stomach revolted. She was lightheaded and knew she was on the verge of passing out if she didn't get the retching and her harsh breathing under control.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? She _needed_ to be in control, and she wasn't. She couldn't find the strength, the wherewithal, the focus to bring herself back. Her chest burned as she rested her head limply on the toilet seat, forcing herself to suck in a breath despite the fear and helplessness that was consuming her, and then she silently counted to three before releasing said breath. She repeated the process over and over until the lightheadedness passed, and she felt like she could lift her head without collapsing.

God, she hated _this_.

Panic attacks.

They weren't new, but the last time she'd had them on a regular basis – like she was now – was when she was twelve and her mother died.

She felt her stomach stop rolling (_finally_) and raised her head tentatively. When she didn't immediately bend her head forward again, she took it as a sign and twisted herself until she could rest against the wall. Slowly, the burning in her chest eased as her breathing steadied to a more normal pace.

The headache that came next, however, wasn't a surprise. But that didn't mean it still didn't hurt like a bitch. Honestly, she'd rather be shot in the shoulder all over again, then have to go through another panic attack. But the last thing she wants to think about is, why she's having them on a regular basis again. Because six years ago when she was still in Hawaii, she sure as hell wasn't.

It could have been minutes or maybe even hours later, but eventually she felt _human_ enough to push herself up and stumble toward the sink on heavy legs. Reaching for her tooth brush, she refused to look at herself in the mirror as she rid her mouth from the bitter, acid taste of her own vomit. Her legs were shaking and any second, she knew, they'd give out; so she braced herself against the counter.

Tears were leaking from her eyes and she just let them roll down the sculpted planes of her cheek bones, not having the energy to fight them like she normally would. A few strangled sobs escaped her throat before she stumbled back into her bedroom, body sinking bonelessly into her mattress and legs tangling themselves in the mess of her sheets and blanket.

Sleep doesn't come and she hates taking pills, and her mind immediately flashes back to a conversation from over six years ago that still feels like yesterday.

_Flashback_

"_It's Tylenol, Peyton." Chin says, exasperation lacing his normally calm tone. "I'm not asking you take Vicodin or Demerol."_

"_And I told you," Peyton snaps, voice raw and scratchy from all the dry heaving and retching she had done minutes earlier. "I don't like taking pills to help me sleep. I'll be fine, I've gone through this sort of thing before and I came out just fine **without** a pill."_

"_This sort of thing?" The normally unflappable man scoffs and shakes his head. "A panic attack isn't something you joke about; even if you could give Wonder Woman a run for her money on a daily basis. So humor me, please," His voice is gentle and warm, his hand reaching out to brush the damp waves of hair from her forehead. "And just take **one** Tylenol. I mean come on," He cracks a rare smile, which always sends her stomach tumbling in the best way possible. "You don't want me to go and break in a new partner, do you?"_

"_You'd drop me for not taking some stupid pill that isn't even going to help?" She skeptically arches a perfectly tweezed brow, but her golden flecked hazel eyes tell the truth; they're searching, rapidly flicking over every inch of his face and dulled with the fear that he isn't joking._

_His stomach twits just like his heart from the look in her eyes, but he shakes off the feeling. "I didn't drop you when you went into that Yakuza warehouse without back up, and most importantly without me, did I?" His onyx gaze his steady, unwavering compared to the frazzled look in her doe eyes. "And if I didn't request a new partner then, why would I now? I just want you to be healthy and have a clear head when the morning comes, so you're fully capable of doing your excellent Wonder Woman impression."_

"_Give me the damn pills." She grumbles, shaking her head. "Jeez, Kelly, you **really** know how to lay it on **thick**, don't you?"_

"_We're partners, Keller." He smiles again, affectionately bumping her with his elbow. "Looking out for each other is what we do. I've got your back, and you've got my back, right?"_

"_Always." She answers softly, humbled by the intensity behind his gaze._

_End flashback_

It feels like _he's_ there, firm and calloused fingers, stroking the bare skin of her arm that her tank top doesn't cover. Sinking further into the mattress, it isn't the softness that she feels, but the hard strong lines of his body. She doesn't smell the detergent and fabric softener on her sheets; instead his smell of rich sandalwood and the saltiness of the ocean, fills her nose.

And it's all so _real_, she swears that if she opened her eyes, his onyx eyes would be staring back into hers.

She endures a restless sleep, haunted by the memories of a partnership and if she's being honest – a man – she hasn't let go of. The shrillness of her phone ringing by her bedside at – five AM – pulls her into the land of the living as she reaches for the device.

She gives her standard greeting, "Keller," and for one desperate moment she holds her breath, hoping in vain, to hear the low, warm vibrato of _his _tone.

But she doesn't, and she's able to release the breath that's straining her chest. Instead it's the lower and darker tone of her fellow Marshall (yeah, he's technically her partner; they don't work with anyone else and it's ridiculous, but even after four years she still can't refer to him as her partner, even in her head) Cameron Grant.

"Get ready to roll ASAP." He says. "Stan wants us in by six; we have to catch a flight to Honolulu with a witness by seven."

In an instant her whole world, stops spinning. She's holding her breath all over again and somehow a strangled, "What," crawls out of her throat.

"Don't worry about it; I'm pulling up to your place right now. Just get dressed and I'll fill you in along the way."


End file.
